Part 6 (2/2)

I am thinking of a hero that was never known to fame, Just a manly little fellow with a very common name; He was freckle-faced and ruddy, but his head was n.o.bly shaped, And he one day took the whipping that his comrades all escaped.

And he never made a murmur, never whimpered in reply; He would rather take the censure than to stand and tell a lie.

And I'm thinking of another that had courage that was fine, And I've often wished in moments that such strength of will were mine.

He stood against his comrades, and he left them then and there When they wanted him to join them in a deed that wasn't fair.

He stood alone, undaunted, with his little head erect; He would rather take the jeering than to lose his self-respect.

And I know a lot of others that have grown to manhood now, Who have yet to wear the laurel that adorns the victor's brow.

They have plodded on in honor through the dusty, dreary ways, They have hungered for life's comforts and the joys of easy days, But they've chosen to be toilers, and in this their splendor's told: They would rather never have it than to do some things for gold.

The Mother's Question

When I was a boy, and it chanced to rain, Mother would always watch for me; She used to stand by the window pane, Worried and troubled as she could be.

And this was the question I used to hear, The very minute that I drew near; The words she used, I can't forget: ”Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet.”

Worried about me was mother dear, As healthy a lad as ever strolled Over a turnpike, far or near, 'Fraid to death that I'd take a cold.

Always stood by the window pane, Watching for me in the pouring rain; And her words in my ears are ringing yet: ”Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet.”

Stockings warmed by the kitchen fire, And slippers ready for me to wear; Seemed that mother would never tire, Giving her boy the best of care, Thinking of him the long day through, In the worried way that all mothers do; Whenever it rained she'd start to fret, Always fearing my feet were wet.

And now, whenever it rains, I see A vision of mother in days of yore, Still waiting there to welcome me, As she used to do by the open door.

And always I think as I enter there Of a mother's love and a mother's care; Her words in my ears are ringing yet: ”Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet.”

The Blue Flannel s.h.i.+rt

I am eager once more to feel easy, I'm weary of thinking of dress; I'm heartily sick of stiff collars, And trousers the tailor must press.

I'm eagerly waiting the glad days-- When fas.h.i.+on will cease to a.s.sert What I must put on every morning-- The days of the blue flannel s.h.i.+rt.

I want to get out in the country And rest by the side of the lake; To go a few days without shaving, And give grim old custom the shake.

A week's growth of whiskers, I'm thinking, At present my chin wouldn't hurt; And I'm yearning to don those old trousers And loaf in that blue flannel s.h.i.+rt.

You can brag all you like of your fas.h.i.+ons, The style of your cutaway coat; You can boast of your tailor-made raiment, And the collar that strangles your throat; But give me the old pair of trousers That seem to improve with the dirt, And let me get back to the comfort That's born of a blue flannel s.h.i.+rt.

Grandpa

My grandpa is the finest man Excep' my pa. My grandpa can Make kites an' carts an' lots of things You pull along the ground with strings, And he knows all the names of birds, And how they call 'thout using words, And where they live and what they eat, And how they build their nests so neat.

He's lots of fun! Sometimes all day He comes to visit me and play.

You see he's getting old, and so To work he doesn't have to go, And when it isn't raining, he Drops in to have some fun with me.

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